


was she told when she was young that pain would lead to pleasure?

by miserablehoney



Category: The Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserablehoney/pseuds/miserablehoney
Summary: some bullshit i found in my notes from two years ago that i never finished. i have no intention on finishing this or rereading it, but i don’t want to lose my work. no trigger warnings here, so if you’re triggered by anything don’t read this. it’s trash, many spelling mistakes and misplaced punctuation.
Relationships: Paul McCartney/John Lennon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	was she told when she was young that pain would lead to pleasure?

The air grew heavy with the essence of whispers and childlike giggles. Ringo glanced over at the entanglement of limbs that was John and Paul, and rolled his eyes. 

Ringo closed his eyes, he was in the half drunken state of not knowing wether it was really late at night, or really early in the morning, and the buzz of the night’s affairs were slowly coming to a stop. He leaned his head on his pillow, and listened to his pulse. The sheets that were once containing George were scattered at the foot of the bed at the other side of the room, and George was nowhere to be seen. It was likely that George was just crashing at some bird’s flat for the night. 

Ringo began to drift into a state of unconsciousness, but a loud crash from outside his hotel room shook him to consciousness. 

“John, stop, please. I can’t do this anymore.” 

“You’re a fucking queer, y’know that McCartney? You’re nothing more then a fucking piece of eye candy, otherwise Eppy would’ve kicked you of the band years ago.” Ringo can hear John sneer, he can almost imagine John leering over Paul, regardless of the fact that Paul may be taller. He can imagine Paul slinking beneath John’s anger, and submitting to whatever John pleases out of fear. 

“Takes one to know one, Lenny.” 

“Fuck you, Johnny! Fuck you! I hate you! You always do this, you’re such a bipolar piece of shit.” Ringo heard a slap, the sound of somebody’s palm meeting somebody’s face breaks the sound barrier. Ringo tries to ignore it, but the sound of everything is unbearable. 

“I never loved you. You’re worthless, and if I really wanted, I could have you on your hands and knees with my cock up yer arse without hesitation.” 

“You’re just a drug addicted piece of fat shit who can’t write a fucking song without me holding your ass for you!” Paul’s insults are followed by a slap, another slap, the sound of a head hitting the floor, a whimper, and the sound of defeat as he can hear a shoe crumpling a spinal chord. 

“Yesterday is the worst fucking song in our entire catalogue. I’m talking to Eppy first thing tomorrow to see if we can have it removed from the set list. Go fucking sleep with Ringo, see if he can give you what I can’t.” Not single word would dare leave his lips. 

“You ain’t looking so pretty with all those bruises on your face, Paulie.” John taunted. Ringo swallowed back the guilt rising from the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t have let that fight escalate, but getting in between John and Paul can be a lethal mistake. Minutes passed of Ringo tossing and turning, before a knock startled the silence. Ringo slowly opened the door, and looked Paul up and down. His bottom lip was slit, his nose was bloody, he was absolutely covered in blood, with a black eye and a limp to match. 

“Rough night?” Was all Ringo could manage to say. 

“You could say that again.” 

Ringo never knew why he asked questions when he already knew the answers. 

“Do you mind if I crash here tonight.?” Paul asked

“Be my guest. I suggest you wash the blood off yourself before you climb into george’s bed though. I don’t think he would be too happy if you left him a biohazard to come back to.” 

When Paul returned from the bathroom, he was wearing nothing but his boxers, which were sliding off the blades of his hipbones. There were hickeys tainting his otherwise pale and sharp collarbone, bruises littering his arms, and scratches and bruises shaped like finger prints over his adam’s apple. 

“Are you alright?” Yet again, Ringo knew the answer before a single word left Paul’s lips. 

“No.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“No.” 

Ringo paused. “Thing’s can’t go on like this forever, Paul.”

“I don’t care.” Paul snapped, but then his expression relaxed and he leaned back into the bed. “Do you have a fag you can spare? I left my pack in the room. “ Without saying a word, Ringo lit up a cigarette and passed it to Paul. “Ta, Rings.”


End file.
